She had come level with a hole in the side of the well. A hole large enough for her to climb through. Furthermore, the starlight now shone from within.
Swinging her weight, Leta shifted the bucket enough to allow her to get a purchase on the hole and, after a thrilling moment when she thought she would lose her balance entirely, managed to pull herself inside. Here she discovered a tunnel just big enough to crawl through. The stone was sharp. If she’d thought she was dreaming until then, the pain of those biting stones would have convinced her otherwise. But the star winked on ahead, and she crawled after it, ignoring how numb her ears, nose, and toes were, or the dreadful crick developing in her neck and shoulders. She crawled until the tunnel opened up and she was at last able to stand.
Here she found a dark staircase carved of rock. The secret passage of Gaheris Castle, winding down to the river.
The starlight vanished. With it went all the warmth and comfort that had been holding Leta’s fears at bay. She fell against the wall, feeling a wellspring of panic and despair swelling in her bosom, ready to explode.
“Don’t be a fool, Leta,” she growled as she made her feet take the next few paces in the dark, feeling for the edge of the steps.
But two steps down, the stairway vanished. As did the cold and the dankness of heavy stone surrounding her. Leta stumbled and nearly fell as her third footfall landed on crackling twigs, leaves, and undergrowth.
Another step, and she stood in an old forest.
It was warm. It was full of shadows. It was still.
Leta stared about, her eyes disbelieving, fingers and feet aching as her blood warmed and began to rush through her body. “Ceaneus!” she called, but somehow she knew the star was no longer near. It had served its purpose and guided her from Gaheris. But guided her where?
“Ceaneus!” she called again, without hope. Her voice was strangely small, as though the great trees around her and the heavy moss beneath her feet caught it up and swallowed it. She staggered forward, her head spinning with colors and smells and a quiet filled with the whispers of the trees.
Two steps more, and she stood at the doors of the Haven.
18
EANRIN FELT THE SURROUNDING PRESENCE of the Netherworld’s phantoms. He heard their voices faintly crying; though they sounded miles distant, they may have been near enough to touch. He tried to ignore them, straining his ears after the footsteps of the high priestess ahead of him.
“Fool, fool, fool!” he muttered. “Slow down now. You’ll not catch her, and you’re lost enough as it is. Slow down and find your footing.”
It was then he saw a light ahead, a light he recognized.
“Asha!” he gasped and ran for it, seeking the brilliance of white hope that might yet be found in the deep places. He could not help the phantoms nor even the priestess, so long as they fled from him.
But he could help bring about the end of the Dragonwitch’s reign! He could serve the Smallman King.
The light was drawing closer. Was it Alistair, he wondered, searching in the darkness for his kinsman? Had he found the grave of Akilun and taken the lantern to guide his way?
But soon Eanrin recognized a face and form highlighted in Asha’s brilliance. “Imraldera!” he cried, his voice angry. “Dragons blast your mortal stupidity!”
“Eanrin!” The lady knight and Mouse stopped and waited for the cat-man to catch up. The white glow of Asha revealed his pale face smeared with dirt and with the darker stains of Netherworld shadows and fears. His eyes were bright and flashing, however, and they saw that he was whole.
For an instant, Imraldera’s face openly displayed all her relief and worry rolled into one. “I thought . . . when I saw the chamber open and you nowhere near, I feared . . .” Then she shook her head and hid behind a frown. “What are you doing here?”
“I could ask the same of you!” Eanrin replied, glaring furiously from her to Mouse and back again. “Did I not tell you to take Halisa to the surface? Where is the sword? Where is the dragon-eaten Smallman? Why can’t you ever listen to an order?”
“You’re not my superior,” Imraldera growled, but she put out a hand and touched his arm, glad to feel him solid and warm in this world of cold wraiths. Then she and Mouse explained, stumbling over their words.
“The Chronicler told us to run,” Mouse said, her voice shaking.
“Why?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what he intends. But he seemed to know. And he has Fireword.”
Eanrin rubbed his face with both hands, suddenly as tired as a mortal at dusk. Imraldera squeezed his arm again. “He is the Smallman,” she said, “chosen by our Master for this purpose. We should trust him.”
“Trust him and what?”